


All Those Little Things

by BehaviouralPoet



Series: Lords and Ladies!Verse [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:20:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BehaviouralPoet/pseuds/BehaviouralPoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandor turns up at the gates of Winterfell, wounded and ill. Sansa nurses him back to health, and they rebuild their relationship based on their new positions. But will she keep him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Those Little Things

**Author's Note:**

> This was my fic for the SanSan Secret Valentine exchange. It differs from the original because I can't look at my own stuff without wanting to change it. The prompt, for exitpursuedbyasloth, was: "Sansa doing five feminine or lady gestures/gifts (like embroidery or singing, you know, things that are considered typically feminine) for Sandor, and one time he did or got something feminine for her." However, to fit the word count and deadline, I turned it into four things Sansa did. Since then, I've changed a few things, including the ending, because I wanted it to be funnier.

_Three years,_ she thinks to herself. _Three years since he turned up at Winterfell’s door, half-dead and with a band of wights following hard behind him._ Of course, the wights had presented little trouble - she had the Lord Commander to thank for that - but it had still been something of a fright. He’d been in his sickbed for two whole weeks, drifting in and out of a high fever. The maesters had been convinced that he wouldn’t make it, that the amputation of the damaged hand had been too much trauma, but she had known different, she had known he would pull through.

She had, of course, been there when he’d woken up. The room smelled pleasantly of pine from the logs in the fire, and it was always warm; she had insisted he be put in her father’s room, one of the few where the hot spring heating system had not been damaged. Cradling his thin, remaining hand (how small it seemed!) in both of hers, she’d almost jumped out of her seat when he cracked an eye open. She’d attempted to cover up her tears, had told herself that he had to know her as the Queen of the North now, but the moment he’d come to his senses he’d chuckled and lifted a finger to brush them away. “Come now, little bird, surely I’m not that unpleasant a sight.” He’d slipped back into sleep again not long after, but the fever had broken, and they had proven the maesters wrong.

 

*

 

After his, admittedly slow, recovery, he tries to leave his room. However, the long journey, multiple fights and long spell in bed have weakened him, and that on top of his injured leg. The first time he tried to get up, fighting off flapping maesters, he’d taken three tottering steps and then fallen like a tree. The maesters said he had confused his head, and shouldn’t get up for a week, but he was out of bed again as soon as they were out of the room, and fell over, again. This time, she came to his room herself.  
He stares at her as she comes in through the door, as if shocked that she’s come. She stares back at him, her brows having fallen into her now too-familiar glare she uses to keep her subjects in line. Not breaking the eye contact, she waves away the maesters, who protest half-heartedly and then file out, bickering with one another under their collective breath.

“I cannot allow you to continue to endanger your recovery,” she begins. Almost instantly, he tries to protest, but she just takes a step forward, taking her to the end of his bed, and waves him down. “You are in my domain, and you will do as I tell you. The maesters tell me you are too agitated to stay in bed properly, so I am going to calm you down, because the knowledge that you are knocking yourself over the head as frequently as you are able is distracting.

“So, what would calm you down, Lord Clegane?” She watches his reaction with amusement. Widened eyes, and then a spasm of disgust.

“Why would you name me that?” His voice is low, rough, shaking slightly.

“Your brother almost certainly died in the Battle at the Twins. You are, by law, the rightful lord of House Clegane and all its attendant properties.” She raises a hand to forestall his objections. “As you may or may not know, Queen Daenerys is granting newly vacant lands to neighbouring families who have survived, and the Westerlands are now somewhat depopulated after the Lannister’s final stand, leaving you in an extremely advantageous position, _Lord_ Clegane.” He winces slightly, and her eyes soften. “I shall not force you to do anything. But I need allies, and you could be, are, a powerful one. So, please. I need your friendship. Do I have it?”

He stares at her for an interminable minute. “Aye. You have it. But I shall not return to that place, not ever. Let some poxy steward run it.” Even that much sounds as if it is being dragged out of him. Sansa smiles briefly, relieved, and sits in a chair beside his bed, before resuming her tranquil, neutral mask. He chuckles roughly at that, the painted doll’s face. “Come now, little bird, if you can’t relax around your allies, when can you?”

 _Never_ , she wants to say. That is a response from her time with Littlefinger, she knows, but it is so hard to let go of it, in the same way that armour can be so tight it cannot come off. _If something is too tight, you have outgrown it. I must move past what happened in the Eyrie._ “I suppose there’s truth in that, Lord Clegane,” she tells him, wryly. “I really only called you Lord because I did not know how else to name you. You still reject ‘ser,’ I’m told, and ‘Hound’ was the Lannister’s name for you.”

His mouth twists, as if he’s chewing the information. “Call me my name, then. Call me Sandor.” He barks one of his hoarse laughs. “Lord Clegane indeed. Never thought I’d hear that attached to me. Never _wanted_ to.”

She smiles again, a little wan. “We’ve all had to do things we don’t want to." That was said in the voice of the Winter Queen, hard as ice and sharp as a bitter wind. "Now, Sandor… what would calm you down?”

He gazes at her, intense. “Would… would you sing for me, little bird?” His voice is rough, and just a little wavering. There is a moment, a full, tense moment, crackling like a fire, before she inclines her head. “I- thank you.”

The smallfolk travelling through courtyards below look skywards as they hear song drift from one of Winterfell’s tower, and wonder who it is. It couldn’t be the Queen, of course. Everyone knows she doesn’t trust singers.

 

*

 

After that initial meeting, Sansa was occupied with various disputes for several days, so it was some time until she was able to visit Sandor again. She walked sedately up the steps, telling Harry to stay behind. There was a rolled up parchment in her hand, and she was wearing a new gown, white, edged with grey fur, sent as a gift by Jon - it had been sewn by some of the new female Sisters of the Night’s Watch (one of Jon’s many pragmatic changes), and was as elegant as it was warm.

As she pushed open the door, she bid Sandor a cheery greeting. He merely grunted in response. Startled, she paused in her steps, and surveyed the room. The drapes were drawn, making it shadowy and uncomfortably warm, and the face lying in the bed simply scowled at her. Rather than indulging him in what she guessed was some kind of tantrum, she simply raised an eyebrow archly and closed the door behind her.

The silence lasted for several minutes, until finally he grunted and sat up a little. “How nice to see you again, Your Highness. How can I please you today? Some further alliance? Or perhaps-” he waved his remaining hand in the air “-you’ve come for this. Complete the collection? Yes, the maesters let slip who ordered it taken off.”

Sansa remained silent for a further time, regarding him. “Greyscale. It took two of your fingers to the first two knuckles. Frostbite had the other three. The maesters told me that unless they removed the whole hand, your chances of surviving were worse than none. Will you be angry with me for saving your life, Lord Clegane?” She regrets the retreat into formality after the progress they had previously made, but she will not be the one who tries to make amends when she has done nothing wrong.

He appears to digest the information, before dipping his head in acquiescence. “I… see. I suppose I owe you an apology, then, Your- Sansa.”

“Yes, I suppose you do,” comes the reply. The eyebrow remains an aloof parabola.

“Very good, little bird. Standing up to people at last. I apologise. I misjudged you. When I heard the maesters mention that you had ordered it, out of the blue, I couldn’t fathom why. And then, several days stewing in my own juices… well.”

“I am a queen, Sandor. I have duties to attend to, however much I wish I did not.”

“And do you? Wish you didn’t, I mean?”

She pauses, considering carefully. “No. I suppose I don’t. It is good to know that I am doing everything it is possible for me to do. The North needs me.” They are both silent for a time, and then she assumes the chair next to his bed again. “I have a message for you. It bears the seal of the Dragon Queen.” She holds it out to him, gingerly, as if afraid it will catch fire.

Sandor simply stares at it, before pushing it back. “Why don’t you read it to me?”

“Am I your steward now?” she chuckles. “Very well.” She breaks the seal and unfurls the message with a flourish. “Lord Sandor,” she begins, trying to mimic the Dragon Queen’s strange, mixed accent, “I, Queen, by grace of Red R'hollor, Ruler of the Andals and the Rhoynar, Lady of the Four Southern Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, am pleased to inform you that due to your status as one of the few remaining lords of the Westerlands, and due to reports of your reputation as a good and loyal man, I have decided to offer you a position as one of the three people comprising the triumvirate which shall govern the new, expanded Westerlands - I have decided the Warden system grants too much power to one man, and thus the different regions shall be governed by small councils. If you wish to take this post, you shall be granted ownership of the lands of Houses Lannister, Reyne, Marbrand and Lefford, in addition to those of House Clegane.” She pauses. “It would appear you are now the sole owner of Casterly Rock, Sandor,” she chuckles. “Surprised?”

“Extremely.” His brow is creased and creviced. “I expected to get Clegane lands and some neighbouring mudwall keeps. Not… all that. She’s just made me one of the most powerful man in Westeros, hasn’t she?”

Sansa nods. “It’s very cunning. No doubt the advice of Ser Barristan - she’s obtained the obedience of a man to whom loyalty means something, and thinks that you’ll be so disoriented by the sudden rise that you’ll be reliant on people she’s planted for advice and aid.”

“Thinks? I can’t play the game, little bird. I’m not meant for it.”

“I know. You’ll be relying on my advice instead.”

He chuckles at that. “I’m sure she doesn’t know what she’s let herself in for.”

 

*

 

Sandor is in the main yard of Winterfell, checking the harness and straps on his horse. He’s no Stranger, but he is one of the new horses Winterfell has started breeding, with the thick coats, sturdy legs and massive hooves. Sandor hasn’t named him - he’ll be sent back when they reach less snow-covered areas anyway. It’s not snowing for once, he notices. It almost makes him sad - the snow has been such a constant sight the past few years, that a gap in the clouds makes him feel exposed, as if the gods might be able to see what’s going on again. See it, and take it away from him.

His full recovery took months, but he is now confident he has returned to his original level of fitness. His swordwork needs a little more practice, and he has had to have a shield specially made to take account of the missing hand, but he feels like a warrior again. The armour he wears feels… comfortable. He is not the Gravedigger anymore, but neither is he the old Hound. It strikes him that his father might actually have been proud of him if he could see him now, and he doesn’t know how he feels about that, or how he should feel.

His escort includes a score men who have sworn fealty to him, and although he knows it’s mainly in hopes of being showered with Lannister gold, he is pleased all the same. As soon as they are all prepared, he mounts the stocky horse and turns to face the courtyard. Empty. There had been a farewell feast last night, and the Queen had sent him many a significant look throughout the evening, and had even made so bold to place a hand on his, but he had played blind, and slipped his own away. He was leaving on the morrow, and he did not deserve even that night with her, he knew.

The horse is turned around again, and he waves his hand forward. The column of men (and a few women) starts forward, until the only people remaining are he and the youngest of his new sworn swords, some sixteen year old stripling boy who has decided he wants to be a great lord’s squire. And then, from round the corner of the keep, the Queen - for he has decided he must keep her as the Queen in his head - comes trotting on her white mare, Lady, apparently holding a lance. She urges her horse over to his squire - what was the boy’s name? Hal? - and hands him the length of wood. Not a lance, he sees, it’s not the right shape. Instead, it’s-

The boy stands it up straight, and the wind catches the cloth wrapped around the top, causing it to unfurl and drop down. It’s the Clegane sigil - but not quite. There are two lions, yellow and red, in the top left and right corners, and at the bottom corners are a sun, which looks to him like it’s just been gutted, and a burning tree. The whole banner is trimmed with a white fur.

“It represents the lands you are to take ownership of,” the Queen explains, her horse walking daintily to him. “The lions of the Lannisters and Reynes, the sun of the Leffords, and the burning tree of the Marbrands.” She laughs, harshly. "I suppose they really lived up to their words, in the end - 'burning bright.'"

“And the white trim?” he asks, gruffly, bowing a little in his saddle.

“Why, that means nothing at all. It certainly doesn’t mean that you are an ally of the North, although it might start such rumours.” She smiles, slyly, and this is not the smile of the trapped little bird, or the one that nursed him back to health, but an eagle which is soaring free and knows exactly where the voles are hiding. “Such things are helpful.” Lady is made to sidestep next to Sandor’s horse, and she leans in to him. “Please, Sandor, as soon as you can, visit me. You know what I feel towards you, and I think you feel the same about me. Please.”

His mouth twists, as if he’s tasted some bitter thing that he can’t quite swallow. “My thanks for the banner, Your Highness,” he replies, loudly enough for anyone listening to hear, “but I am afraid I must catch up with my escort. Green bastards’ll probably be eaten if I don’t tell them what to do.” He flicks his reins and digs in his heels, and the horse sets off at a trot, then a canter. The squire similarly follows.

Sansa quickly dismounts and runs up to the battlements. Clutching her cloak around her, she watches the banner waving mournfully until it becomes too small to see. Not long after, it begins to snow again, which is when, knowing they won’t be noted, she allows the tears to start.

 

*

 

Sansa walks from the throne hall to her rooms, removing her crown as she rounds the final corner and rubbing her brow. Impressive as it may be, the crown, designed to look as similar to Robb’s as descriptions allowed, was extremely heavy, and after long sittings such as today’s, her neck grew sore. She wonders if she would ever grow used to it, and then decided that it would be a bad idea. A queen, she reminds herself, should not forget her position. Perhaps her crown can be her own Iron Throne, she thinks. The guards at her door smile broadly and bow as she walks past them, opening the door and moving to her attiring room. The crown is placed upon its cushion, there to wait until tomorrow, and she undoes the ribbon in her hair, shaking out the tresses until they sit comfortably on her back.

For a moment she considers simply retiring to bed there and then, but reminds herself that she must eat - or, as Lady Mormont told her today, “you need some meat on you to survive this winter, Your Majesty.” Smiling slightly, she turns to the door of her solar, she is startled to note a splash of blue on the floor. Walking closer, she realises that it’s a petal - to be precise, a petal from a blue winter rose. Moreover, the door to her solar is slightly ajar. She reaches into her left sleeve and draws out the dagger Arya insists she keeps there. How anyone could have gotten past the guards is beyond her, but she knows she is not allowed to take that kind of risk. Slowly pushing open the door, rather than a room full of men in armour she sees… one large man, in large armour. Holding a tiny cake, which looks even tinier in his hands.

“Sandor?” She knows that she’s gaping, but can’t quite bring herself to correct it.

“My lady Sansa,” he replies, standing and bowing. “I know I wasn’t expected for a few days yet, but I decided to ride ahead. From what I’ve heard, you could do with an opportunity to relax. Please, sit.” His mannerisms are strange, a little too formal and courteous for him, like clothes that clash with one’s complexion. He breaks out a grin. “The tea’ll be cold and the wine’ll be warm before too long.”

She pulls a more presentable expression onto her face, and moves to sit opposite him. As she does so, she notices- “Lemon cakes?”

He chuckles. “If you could see yourself, little bird. Yes, lemon cakes. With lemons all the way from Myr. None to be had in Westeros, it seems. That sister of yours had better not have been lying to me when she said you liked them.”

“I- yes. Thank you.” Daintily, but also as fast as she can, she picks one up and takes a large bite. She closes her eyes, trying to devote her senses to the moment. When she is done, she looks out at the word with a kind of benevolence. “Better than I remembered. This means a lot to me, Sandor.”

“Me too, little bird. Sansa.” He cocks his head. “Crumb.” He reaches across the table to wipe it away from the corner of her mouth, and she quickly captures it in her own hands, holding it against her cheek. His facial expression is inscrutable, and for several seconds, he does nothing. Sansa feels her heart beat a little faster in her breast, barely able to stay still. And then she feels his thumb move against her face, stroking it gently, and before she can smile he’s swept her into a kiss, the kiss, the one she’s dreamed of, and fantasised about, and clutched to herself as she cried herself to sleep in the Eyrie. And this, too is better than it was in her head.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first work in my Lords and Ladies!Verse series. There may be some which come before it chronologically in universe, but this was the first one I watched.
> 
> I've changed it so that Sandor has the lands of House Marbrand too, on the grounds that House Marbrand was so entwined with the Lannisters that they would have stood with them. This also happens to mean that there isn't a large gap between some of Sandor's territory, so now they all adjoin.
> 
> Niggles you may have had:  
> \- Pine is not safe for burning, because of the creosote that builds up in the chimney, but this can be negated by mixing it with other woods and cleaning the chimney regularly. Since most trees near Winterfell are pine, I couldn't see them burning much else.  
> \- Yes, I wrote "Queen _of_ the North." I understand why most people prefer "Queen _in_ the North," but I have reasons: Robb was King in the North, because he was definitely a Northerner, and he was put there by consent of the other lords. Sansa, however, is no longer entirely of the North, considering her life, and the Winter is not the time for occupying a seat: Sansa _owns_ the North, it is her domain.


End file.
